


a kind of omnipresence

by Rynezion



Series: omnipresence [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dandelion the mabari, F/M, Getting Together, M/M, Modern Thedas, Multi, magical realism (of a sort)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:19:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynezion/pseuds/Rynezion
Summary: When Zevran enters his building after a 4 a.m. corner shop foray, the last thing he expects to find is a sharp-featured elven woman crouching in front of his downstairs neighbour’s front door, working the lock vigorously with a hairpin and a small nail file.Her technique is really quite terrible."-Chance encounters at 4 a.m. sometimes lead to a pot of embrium, grown from seed; one dinner of potatoes with olives and tomato sauce; and a kiss over a bowl of strawberries.





	a kind of omnipresence

**Author's Note:**

> a smugly indulgent modern AU thing heavily inspired by the house I recently moved into, some rainy weather and [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YV2MZibJvOM)

 

When Zevran enters his building after a 4 a.m. corner shop foray, the last thing he expects to find is a sharp-featured elven woman crouching in front of his downstairs neighbour’s front door, working the lock vigorously with a hairpin and a small nail file.

Her technique is really quite terrible.

“Can I help you?” Zevran asks conversationally and she almost breaks the file in half in her haste to yank it out of the keyhole and turn to appear inconspicuous.

“Keys,” she blurts. Her ears flick down in embarrassment. “I never got them. Shit.” She jams the file and hairpin into her jacket pocket and clambers to her feet. “I’m here for the cats. Sorry.”

That explains the plastic bag full of cans drooping abandoned by the far wall. Zevran deposits the spoils of his own late-night venture and offers his right hand in greeting.

“Zevran Arainai, upstairs neighbour. Are you Anders’ friend?”

“Flatmate. From next week onwards, I guess. Iraine,” she adds hastily, taking his hand with cold fingers and releasing it after one jerky shake. The greenish overhead light flickers off, then on again.

“You’re in luck, Iraine,” Zevran says and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a jumble of keys and keychains of varying sizes, presenting them to the woman with an air of triumph. She squints, perplexed. “Anders left his spare key with us last month and forgot to ask it back,” he adds helpfully. “Shall we?”

Iraine pulls back, left heel knocking into the bag of cat food with a rustle and a soft clank. The light-bulb spits and flickers again. Outside, the rain picks up momentum once more—Zevran can hear it patter on the tin roof sagging over the entrance, the uneven rhythm an eerily fitting backdrop to… whatever this is.

_Magical chance-encounters at four in the morning. What’s new?_

The lock protests, then turns; the light from the hallway illuminating Anders’ cramped entryway cluttered with shoes and jackets and crooked floor tiles. Old-fashioned, black and white checkered pattern. Peeling wallpaper. A round carpet, worn thin. The bead curtain makes a wooden clicking noise as a well-fed orange tabby pushes its way through, blinking owlishly at him and his now-acquaintance before padding over and twisting around Iraine’s ankles in greeting.

“Hello, Ser Pounce-a-lot,” she murmurs and crouches to trail knobbly fingers between perked up ears. She looks up at Zevran, face half-shrouded in shadow.

“Thank you, serah Arainai,” she says earnestly and Zevran chuckles, bending down to pick up his own bag. A packet of mabari crunch almost slithers off the box of washing powder and onto the floor.

“I’m neither a Marcher, nor is the honorific necessary,” he says, “Zevran will do.”

Iraine nods, gathers the cat in her arms with an expert’s efficiency and stands up once again.

“Thank you, Zevran.”

Her bag thumps once against the doorframe as she crosses the threshold, deposits Ser Pounce-a-lot and turns to close the door behind them, flicking the light on with her free hand.

Zevran stares as the door closes to a sliver of golden light.

“I’ll see you around,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, almost missing her smile before the lock clicks shut and the rattle of the safety chain hooking into its rail echoes into nothing. Zevran sighs, rubs his forehead and heads for the stairs.

The overhead light sputters one last time, then flickers out for good.

 

-

 

It’s a week later when Alistair comes home from parents’ night late, long after dark. His voice on the phone is tired and Zevran slips out to pick up two boxes of carry-out from the Rivaini place a corner down, settling in with Dandelion and a pad of paper to wait the sound of the key turning in the lock.

When Alistair closes the door behind him, he’s clutching a flowerpot tightly to his chest and the skin between his eyebrows is scrunched up in bewildered amazement.

“I met a girl,” he says. Zevran blinks, then bursts out laughing.

 

-

 

The pot finds a place by their bedroom window, facing east. A couple of days later sturdy green stems poke through the soil under Alistair’s careful supervision—Zevran and Dandelion wander over to investigate, not too close, for there is something compelling in watching Alistair undisturbed, framed by the greenish glow of morning after rainy morning.

What is it about a sturdy primary school teacher armed with a spray bottle and a watering can that makes Zevran’s heart race so?

He makes a point of thanking Iraine the next time they bump into each other, freshly in from the rain after another insomnia-induced late night walk around the neighbourhood. Her eyes widen at the sight of Dandelion.

“Whoa,” Zevran yanks at the lead—an exercise in futility, as it turns out, for the aging mabari wastes no time getting himself acquainted, dragging him behind without visible effort to scurry around Iraine and wag his tail with enthusiasm. Iraine crouches and takes his enormous head in her hands. Dandelion huffs and sneezes.

Iraine giggles. An honest, Maker-forsaken _giggle._

Zevran watches helplessly as Dandelion the womanizer drops onto his back, accepting cooing and generous belly scratches with a great deal of tongue-lolling and tail wagging.

“He’s beautiful,” Iraine smiles up at him, bright and sunny and nothing like the exhausted crook of lips from two weeks ago. _I met a girl,_ Alistair said.

Right.

“Isn’t he? A treasured family member, our Dandelion,” he says brightly and she giggles again, burying her fingers in the thick fur at the mabari’s neck.

“Dandelion. How fitting.”

“It’s a joke, you see,” Zevran continues, aware that he’s babbling and uncertain how to stop himself, “we inherited him from a family member whose husband had a terrible sense of humour. They named him after his great uncle, Dan.”

At her uncertain look, he explains: “Dandelion. Dan, the lion. Uncle Dan didn’t appreciate it at the time, I understand.”

“Oh,” she says, lips quirking into another smile. “He does look like a dandelion, in a way, don’t you think? All that yellow scruff.”

Zevran never thought about it before. He hums amused agreement.

“Whatever possessed your relatives to give him away anyway?” Iraine asks then, and Zevran’s smile falters.

Is it really seven years ago now? That awful phone call, the sense of hazy panic, Alistair’s slow path of self-destruction?

“He died,” Zevran says and hates how his voice goes quiet and raspy all of a sudden. None of them were equipped to deal with the sudden Duncan-shaped hole in their lives, not even Dandelion.

“I’m sorry,” Iraine replies softly. “It was an insensitive question. I apologise.”

“Ah, not at all. He is an unusual kind of inheritance.”

They fall into somewhat stilted silence.

“In any case,” Zevran says, grasping for a change of topic, “I wanted to thank you for the gift you gave Alistair the other week. It’s coming along nicely, whatever it is.”

“Oh,” she brightens, “wonderful! It’s a flower—flowers, actually, I meant it as a thank you for the other week. I gave serah Theirin instructions… you need to keep it inside until at least the end of Bloomingtide, if the weather warms, and water it every three days—oh, but you must have heard it all already. Sorry. Has it started shooting leaves yet?”

“I’m quite uncertain,” Zevran replies, then takes a deep breath. “Why don’t you come upstairs sometime to see? You seem to be quite invested in its development. You can discuss its care with Alistair if you like,” he adds, then, apologetic, “He keeps daylight hours, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, I suppose! It’s…” Iraine blushes, a faint tinge of red on her dark cheeks. Her ears flicker once, twice, then she nods. “All right.”

“Excellent.”

“Good.”

They stare at each other and Zevran stifles the urge to groan and slap his own forehead. _Fool._

“I better go,” Iraine says then, gives Dandelion one last scratch behind his ears, and waves them good-bye. Zevran smiles cordially in turn. Dandelion whines mournfully at her retreating back.

“Stop it, you lout,” Zevran mutters and crouches to bury his face into the yellowish fur for a second.

When he returns to the bedroom, Alistair is up and blinking at him from behind thick rimmed reading glasses.

“You didn’t have to wait,” Zevran says fondly and plasters himself against his side, feet cold from the clammy Cloudreach chill and listens to Alistair’s slow and steady heartbeat.

“Think you can sleep now?” Alistair asks and tucks him closer, folding the blanket over them and clicking off the bedside light.

“Mmm,” Zevran replies and presses a kiss against his collarbone. “My love, I met a girl.”

Alistair’s return chuckle rumbles against his cheek and he drifts off to sleep with the sound of it.

 

-

 

And so a few days later Alistair comes home from work to the sight of their downstairs neighbour perched on a stool, peeling potatoes; Zevran himself stirring sauce and chopping olives and reveling in the look of confused delight on his face as he rounds the corner with an excited Dandelion in tow. Zevran receives a kiss on the cheek, Iraine a polite greeting.

“How were the children today?” Zevran asks to banish awkward, blundering small-talk and Alistair predictably launches into a comfortable stream of classroom stories, eyes bright, Iraine laughing at last over half-forgotten potato peels.

 _A job well done._ Zevran fishes the half-finished bowl off her lap and makes quick work of the rest, chopping the potatoes into wedges as he teases Alistair to blushing indignation.

“So, what do you do?” Alistair turns to Iraine in polite inquiry. She fidgets and looks down to inspect her bare feet.

“I work for the police,” she says at last, “forensic investigation.”

“Oh, like corpses?” Alistair asks, vaguely horrified and entirely tactless.

“I’m a medical examiner, yes,” Iraine replies and jerks her chin up, shoulders rising up in defense. Corpses indeed.

“It sounds like difficult, but meaningful work,” Zevran interrupts before Alistair can shove his foot deeper into his own mouth, “have you been doing it for long?”

“Couple of years,” Iraine hunches on the stool, arms crossed. Alistair seems to realise his mistake and stammers belatedly:

“Oh—oh, I didn’t mean… It sounds like very… Rats. I’m sorry.” He gives Zevran a sheepish sideways glance. Iraine shrugs.

“I’m aware it’s not the most glamorous profession. I’m good at it though. Corpses make sense _some_ of the time, at least _._ ”

Zevran doesn’t miss the odd emphasis and wonders about the story that lies beneath. _Not now._

“I imagine you are,” he says cheerfully instead and pours sauce over the potatoes. “Is that why we always meet at such odd hours?”

“Yes,” she sits up straighter and the corners of her mouth twitch up in a smile. “I have the most interesting cases at the most interesting hours.”

“Are you based at the central precinct?”

And with that the flow of conversation continues uninterrupted, Iraine smiling again at their good-natured teasing and sitting down to dinner entirely comfortable some time later, bright-eyed after two glasses of wine. Dandelion is ecstatic over the attention he receives. The potatoes turn out wonderful. They finish late at night after Alistair returns from a freezer-dive victorious, ice cream eaten, wine finished, the pot of flowers in the bedroom entirely forgotten.

Zevran doesn’t mention it. Iraine visits four times before remembering herself.

 

-

 

Justinian comes and the pot of embrium migrates outside, bees and butterflies circling the yellow-orange flowers with enthusiasm. Iraine kisses Alistair once over a bowl of strawberries. They don’t see any trace of her for weeks after—it takes some careful strategising between Anders and the two of them to corner her one night in the stairwell, guilt eating at him for the look of genuine fear on her face when they take her to the pocket-sized backyard to talk.

Zevran utters a confession.

Iraine smiles a watery smile.

They discover that Alistair’s arms are indeed long enough to envelop them both.

When Kingsway turns into Harvestmere, the three of them walk into the second-hand furniture shop and have the city council lift the old bed the following morning. Anders goes through several rotations of new flatmates before settling on a guy with muscles, a scraggly beard and a taste for flirting mercilessly—about time, Zevran thinks, and smiles into Iraine’s hair as she naps spread out on his chest after a long shift, smelling of elfroot and antiseptic.

They talk about finding a house. Between his modest veteran’s pension, Alistair’s teacher wages and Iraine’s salary, they could afford to rent one just outside of the city in the Hinterlands.

“It would be good for Dandelion,” Iraine says thoughtfully, but her eyes rest on Alistair alight with memories of a childhood spent growing up on the countryside between horses and creeks and bales of hay, ten years of eternal summer. Zevran agrees.

“You could have a garden,” he points out, and laughs at the look of surprised delight on Iraine’s sharp features.

Next year.

For now he’s content resting under her weight, waiting for the sound of a key turning in the lock at the front door.


End file.
